


of bitterness that won't leave or let me grow

by bigbraveboop



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Dead Wilbur Soot, Ghost Wilbur Soot, He Dislikes This, In Which TommyInnit is Subjected to Feeling Emotions, Logstedshire, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings, and it ended up being very sad, i had this thought and i just Knew, it will RISE, its kinda rushed tbh i just wrote things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:42:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27920197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigbraveboop/pseuds/bigbraveboop
Summary: ❝Loneliness has a bite like nothing else. It holds your heart in its unforgiving hand, cold and painful and suffocating, and submerges you in water and lets the foam fill your ears, and your mouth until you choke and crushes your windpipe in its iron grip  and drops the horrible bomb that nobody bothers to learn of your fate. That is why you’re lonely.❞↳ Tommy is alone, and he does not cope well
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 13
Kudos: 155





	of bitterness that won't leave or let me grow

**Author's Note:**

> haha this is SAD  
> logstedshire supremacy and shit but WOWWWWW  
> i kinda popped off with this so  
> if you enjoyed it  
> comment and give me kudos !!!
> 
> title from maria mena's "am i supposed to apologise"
> 
> \- elisa <3

Loneliness has a bite like nothing else. It holds your heart in its unforgiving hand, cold and painful and suffocating, and submerges you in water and lets the foam fill your ears, and your mouth until you choke and crushes your windpipe in its iron grip and drops the horrible bomb that nobody bothers to learn of your fate. That is why you’re lonely. 

The rain that hammers down onto Tommy’s skin is a close contender for how loneliness feels, however. It's rain of a new land, an awful and unpleasant land, the result of exile and betrayal and broken bonds and cruel tyrants with power they shouldn't own.

They’d thrown together a wooden wall, stripped logs of birch and oak lining their territory as now the tears of The Universe make their claim upon the newly erected home. Tommy wouldn't call it a home. Ghostbur, Wilbur,  _ whatever _ , insists on it being seen as a vacation, and it’s this positivity that keeps Tommy from slamming his fists against the ground in anger, infuriating as it is. 

In case you haven't been here, the facts are thus:

  * Tubbo exiled Tommy.
  * Tubbo is a traitor, Tommy trusted him with his life, _how could he do this-_
  * All Tommy wants are his discs. They're his right.
  * Ghostbur joined Tommy in exile, _why?_
  * Ghostbur promised to trust and follow Tommy, and that throws Tommy for a loop compared to the _real_ Wilbur, who loved him but had no faith in him
  * Dream can choke and die for all Tommy cares.



Fucking  _ Dream _ . The feel of his netherite axe against Tommy’s neck is equal parts familiar and unwelcome. Banishment from the home you fought tooth and nail for? That’s familiar. It all rings true, rings the same, sends Tommy back to a time not dissimilar to now as  _ his _ words ring in his head time and time again. Vitriolic of being the bad guys, of being in the right but so very wrong, of trusting nobody.

What feels the worst is the fact that Tommy can begin to understand the logic in it all. Tommy thinks that he feels the same cutting sting of betrayal, the same vice hold of despair and loneliness that Wilbur did all those months ago. The fire does not sing to him the same way, no, the call to action is not interwoven through screams and loud voices that echo. Tommy will not listen to the siren song of destruction the same way Wilbur did.

The lament of times gone by is broken by gentle, coarse words spoken from the mouth of a dead man. A dead brother. A ghostly pale and not-all-there arm wraps around Tommy’s shoulders and the chill is too so familiar that Tommy accepts it. 

“Aren't you cold, Tommy? I think you’d be cold. I’m always cold, I don't really know. I’m dead.” Ghostbur says, and the cheer would feel misplaced if coming from anybody else. His arm around Tommy tightens, and it's so cold that it's warm. 

Tommy doesn't reply, opting instead to blink up at Wilbur and his expression is all tragedy. His eyes paint a picture of despair and loss and if Ghostbur’s heart still beat, if it still fulfilled its purpose of life, his heartstrings would be snapping. 

“Well, if you are…” Ghostbur keeps a smile on his face, forcing away the sadness that threatens to claw its way up his throat, that puts him in a chokehold despite his lack of need to breathe. 

A coat is presented, and it all weighs like an anvil on Tommy’s shoulders. Truthfully, the only thing that really weighs on Tommy’s shoulders is the coat itself as it's draped over him in a pathetically wholesome attempt at comfort and warmth. The coat is brown, shoddily re-stitched back together at the ends and on the sleeves, and there's a line on the back where black stitches hold together a red-stained tear, intentional and permanent. 

A scent drifts through Tommy’s senses, muted. Lavender, cinnamon candles,  _ soot _ . The coat is covered with the stuff, ash and soot and blood. The coat is all Wilbur Soot, and it's the biggest comfort Tommy’s had in weeks. 

It's heavy, but it's light, and it's an awful reminder and the best thing Tommy’s felt in so long, after days featuring only stripped wood log walls and scrappy tents, highlighted by relentless goading and painful memories. 

The scent, the memory, the feeling, the  _ familiarity,  _ it all comes to a close with tears building in Tommy’s eyes and spilling over with a pitiful  _ sob _ . Ghostbur, or Wilbur, or  _ whatever _ , confused but so well meaning, so kind, makes a noise in the back of his throat as he draws Tommy in for a hug.

Tommy presses his face into a grey neck, a vibrant yellow sweater that is _ so out of place _ , yet so perfect for the moment. He collapses to the rain-soaked ground, and with him does Ghostbur. Ghostbur gently rakes lithe grey fingers through wet, dripping blonde hair, and it's a comfort in its entirety. And Tommy cries. 

His sobs are muffled by the sweater and are left an intimate memory between a dead brother and a traumatised child. The rain itself hears, of course, they are the tears of the Universe; who swore It loved them, who swore that they tried their best throughout it all, who swore that they deserved to rest. 

Tommy does not rest, and Ghostbur does not rest, and it is a secret between two brothers and the Universe when the youngest whispers, “It was never meant to be.”


End file.
